L'amour des deux lapins: Taken
by Polly Lynn
Summary: "Rabbits are gone. Come home! Who texts something like that? Who texts that and nothing else and then doesn't answer the f***ing phone?" A short interlude in what I guess is the Bunny-verse. No spoilers, but this is rated a soft M. It'll be three chapters. Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

Title: L'amour des deux lapins: Taken

WC: ~2000, Chapter 1

Rating: M

Summary: "_Rabbits are gone. Come home! _Who texts something like that? Who texts _that_ and nothing else and then doesn't _answer the f***ing phone?"_

A/N: As usual, this is PRIMARILY Cora Clavia's fault. However, it's also partly the fault of klff_, who foolishly expressed a wish to take Brain off my hands for a while.

This'll be three chapters, and I'm more confident of that number than usual, with a companion piece of (less confidently) two chapters to follow.

It's a soft-ish M and I apologize to those who love the bunnehs but don't love M fic, but certainly the second chapter ventures to the other side of T, so I'm trying to be respectful with the rating. It is a pretty soft M in chapter 2, though, promise.

Thank you to everyone who has been kind to me and to the bunnehs. I love them more than is mentally healthy, I am sure.

Finally, thank you to Lindosaur for permission to use the cover art for the original "L'amour series."

* * *

She's going to kill him if he doesn't answer the phone.

At this point, she's going to kill him, regardless.

But if he answers the phone—if he picks up the damned phone and explains himself before she breaks all land speed records for the distance between the precinct and the loft—she might kill him quickly.

_Rabbits are gone. Come home! _

Who texts something like that? Who texts _that_ and nothing else and then doesn't _answer the fucking phone?_

It's been eighteen minutes. His grace period was five. He probably doesn't know that. She definitely doesn't care. Because he _should_ know it. And he doesn't even deserve a grace period with that kind of message.

Who _does_ that?

She obviously has to kill him. Now it's just a question of slow and painful or quick and merciful.

Kind of merciful.

Quick, anyway.

It's been nineteen minutes, and she's not quite halfway there. She lost five valuable minutes looking for someone to tell she was leaving, but everyone who'd care was gone already. Even Ryan and Esposito, which is odd when she thinks about it.

It's a little past the end of their shift, but it's not that late. She has paperwork, which means the two of them have even _more _paperwork. But she hasn't seen either one in while. She files that away with the fact that no one bothered to tell _her_ that they were leaving.

That's odd. Or it will be odd when she has time to think about it, which she doesn't right now.

She has a writer to kill.

Twenty minutes and she's added easily a quarter of a mile to the trip trying to circumvent the worst of rush hour. There's nothing but the worst of it.

She didn't drive. Maybe she should have. Or taken the subway. But it's rush hour and it didn't seem worth the risk. It's hardly a mile to the loft on foot, but this feels _eternal_. Like all eight million New Yorkers have taken to the streets at once, determined to be_ in her fucking way. _

Foot traffic comes to a stop in the middle of Houston. Smack in the middle of the block, it comes to a dead stop for no obvious reason. She glances at the phone in her hand. Twenty-two minutes and no texts. No missed calls. Nothing.

_Rabbits are gone. _

Her heart climbs higher to hammer in her throat.

She argues with herself for three seconds, but it's too much. The need to know what's going on—the need to find out what the _hell_ is going on and get on with the urgent business of murdering Castle—is too much.

She hikes up the tail of her shirt and flashes her shield. She sucks in a breath and sends the words up and out from her diaphragm.

"_NYPD. Make a hole!" _

It cuts through the drone of traffic. It cuts through the buzz of a thousand conversations. It cuts through everything. It gets the job done.

She tells herself that's what's important. She tells herself she's not burning with embarrassment, because this is _not _something does, ever. She does _not_ use her badge like this. Ever.

But it gets the job done.

Befuddled tourists drift to the margins. They form confused knots at the curb and press themselves against glass storefronts. They gape at her as she goes, but they comply. Natives glower and stand their ground, but there are gaps enough now that she's able to plow through.

She finally makes the corner. The stoplight counts down as she darts into the gridlocked intersection. She zigzags between bumpers and glides into gaps that hardly last a heartbeat. A Mini inching its way through an illegal right on red actually nudges at her knees, hard enough to bruise.

She slaps her palms down on the hood. The driver flips her the bird and lets loose a stream of obscenities. At least she assumes they're obscenities. His windows are rolled up tight. She can see his face contorting, but she can't hear a thing above the bass thumping out of the car next to his.

She thinks about hauling him out on to the pavement and commandeering the car. Not because she wants the car. Not because a car will get her any closer to murdering Castle any sooner, but it's the principle of the thing.

She decides against it. She decides it might be the tiniest bit melodramatic. It might be the kind of thing Castle would do. He's obviously rubbing off on her.

It's one of the many, many reasons she's going to kill him.

She looks at her watch. She looks at her doggedly silent phone.

_Rabbits are gone. _

Twenty-six minutes.

She's going to kill him.

Probably slowly.

* * *

She doesn't want to kill Eduardo. She _likes _Eduardo. And killing wastes even more valuable time.

But Eduardo is babbling. Well, babbling for Eduardo, so it's still pretty sedate. But he needs to shut up now.

Unless he has some brief, _sensible _explanation for how both passenger cars _and _the freight elevator can possibly be down at exactly the same time that the stairs are unusable, Eduardo needs to close his extremely polite, extremely apologetic mouth.

"Eduardo." She cuts sharply into his third variation on the same explanation.

The same uncharacteristically long, somewhat convoluted explanation.

Something isn't right here.

"Detective?" He doesn't sniff. Eduardo is _far_ too professional to sniff, but he's offended.

She's questioning him. She's questioning him about building-related issues. It's a first for both of them, and she's no happier about it than he is. But something's off.

Definitely off. And that's . . . strangely calming all of a sudden.

_Rabbits are gone. Come home! _

Relief floods through her. Her stomach rebounds and her lungs start working again.

_Rabbits are gone . . . _

This is a scheme. It's one of Castle's schemes, and he's roped Eduardo into it.

She turns her attention back to the doorman.

"The stairs." She lets the words drop. Lets the silence linger long enough that it gets uncomfortable.

For Eduardo.

Because she's _questioning _him. Interrogating him, actually, only she's just realized it.

His eyes shift away. It's just a fraction of a second, but it's enough. He's just realized it, too. He swallows hard.

"Completely inaccessible, Detective, I'm sorry. I know it's inconvenient. And if you'd like . . ."

"A sofa, you said?" She leans forward. She rests her forearms on the high marble ledge above the desk and clasps her hands together casually. She matches his friendly tone exactly. She lets the silence do its work again.

One of Eduardo's nostrils twitches. Combined with him actually breaking eye contact with a tenant, it's as good as a signed confession.

Still, his voice is steady when he repeats his story. When he repeats his story _exactly. _Right down to the odd phrasing. Like he's rehearsed it. Like someone else wrote it and he learned it by heart.

"Yes, a sofa. We have men working on the moves necessary to get the sofa out."

_Moves necessary. _It's an odd phrase.

It's not Eduardo. It's not even Castle. But it's familiar.

"How did they get it in?" She smiles at his confused look, like she's more than happy to clarify. Like she's so pleased with him, that _this _time, she won't subject him to the silence. "The sofa. Do you know how it got _into_ the stairwell?"

He flinches. Eduardo flinches. He's not prepared for the question. At all.

_Sloppy, Castle. _

"I . . . the elevators . . . even the freight . . .The coffee shop next door. I'd be happy to . . ."

". . . to come get me," she finishes. They've been over what he _wants _her to do. She presses him on _why. _She goes off script. "But I'm curious: How could moving a sofa be _so_ urgent that the delivery guys wouldn't just come back. Why didn't you ask them to come back or wait for the freight elevator?"

Eduardo blinks.

He hasn't been coached on this. He doesn't know the story of how the sofa got _into _the stairwell. It's off script, but she has a feeling she knows it anyway. The scenario rings some kind of strange bell. Like it's lifted from something she can't quite put her finger on.

It is. She's sure of it: Castle's cribbing here. He was in a hurry when he put this together. Whatever "this" is.

_Rabbits are gone . . . _

But that's not important now. Not yet.

Maybe not ever, if he's good and she kills him quickly. But that's a long shot at this point. Longer by the minute. She glances at her watch again. She doesn't bother looking at her phone.

"Detective, I take full responsibility." He straightens his jacket, pulling the brass buttons into neat, side-by-side columns. _That's_ on script. On Eduardo's usual script, anyway. But it's a little shaky and he doesn't elaborate. He doesn't say _what _he's taking responsibility for. He doesn't offer any further details.

"I'm sure you do," she mutters. "And I'm sure he doesn't deserve it."

It's snippy. Decidedly snippy, and Eduardo's face slips all the way back to perfect neutrality. Perfect professionalism. Eduardo likes Castle. More importantly, Eduardo never, _ever _gets involved in tenant-related issues. Snippy is not going to get her anywhere.

She dials it down, just a little. She arranges herself carefully. Posture, expression, loosely linked hands. It's all not quite friendly, but he'll want it to be. He'll want so badly for it to be friendly—for it to be polite and a little superficial and _normal_—that he might mistake it for that.

"Eduardo." She opens with another smile.

"Detective?" He arches an eyebrow.

It's desperate, though. Before now she wouldn't have thought that Eduardo had a desperate setting. Not on the job, anyway.

But he's sweating. An actual bead of sweat slips past the patent leather band of his hat and down his temple. She can't do it anymore. It's not his fault. He's a pawn in all this. She can't torture Eduardo and she can't kill him.

But she needs to know exactly whom to kill. If it's just Castle or if she's looking at a bulk rate on body hiding.

Because there's something strange going on. Ryan and Esposito just kind of evaporated, and that was definitely before the text.

It's Castle's scheme, but he might not be acting alone.

She sighs. She hates to do this to him—Eduardo is definitely just following orders—but there's nothing for it.

She lets some of the worry she's been swallowing down work its way back up her throat. She folds her arms and looks him in the eye. He pales, but she plows through.

"Eduardo, I got a very _alarming _message from Mr. Castle telling me to come home right away."

"Oh . . ." His face clouds, but brightens again almost immediately. "Oh! Well. That's . . . I'm sure . . . I mean, I spoke with Mr. Castle not five minutes ago, and . . ."

"Really?" She leans in. Eduardo, to his credit, doesn't flinch this time. He's learning. The thought skips through her mind that with a little training, he'd be an asset in the box. "I find that interesting. Because I've been calling for the last forty minutes and he's not answering the phone. Either the land line or his cell."

"Well, I can't imagine . . ." The doorman stammers.

"Any visitors today?"

Eduardo blinks at the seemingly abrupt change of subject. She presses the advantage.

"If there wasn't a sofa in the stairwell—if _all _the elevators weren't mysteriously down—who _else _might I find upstairs?"

She places just the slightest emphasis on _else_. It hits the mark.

"No! There have . . . Mr. Castle has not had any visitors," he blurts desperately. "I'm sure everything's fine."

"I'm sure you are." She pushes off the desk and turns on her heel. "Thank you, Eduardo. You've been very helpful."

"Detective!" Eduardo calls after her. "The stairs are . . ."

If she didn't know him, she wouldn't even hear the note of desperation. With a little work, he'd definitely be great in the box.

"Inaccessible. Sofa. Stuck. And you don't know how it got there." She waves a hand without turning around. "You did everything you could, Eduardo. I'll make sure Mr. Castle knows that before I kill him."


	2. Chapter 2

Title: L'amour des deux lapins: Taken

WC: ~2700, Chapter 2, ~4700 total

Rating: M

Summary: "_Rabbits are gone. Come home! _Who texts something like that? Who texts _that_ and nothing else and then doesn't _answer the f***ing phone?"_

A/N: Thanks for tuning into the bunnehs (sort of) again in Chapter 1. Again, blame Cora Clavia who beats me about the head and tells me to just post already, even when Brain is irritating and she's inciting me to write meerkats and teeny ponies and stuff; also blame KLFF_, who was shocked—SHOCKED—to see herself being blamed for this. (But she's totally to blame.)

This chapter is M and the M-ness seems to be bleeding into Chapter 3, too. I hope to have that chapter, in which all is revealed, up by the end of the week.

Again, thank you to Lindosaur for permission to use the cover art for the original "L'amour series"!

* * *

She's puffing by the time she pushes open the door to their floor. It's only five flights, but she's willing to bet she's established a new personal best time.

She shakes her keys out of her pocket and covers the distance to the door in long, angry strides.

Her hands are steady as she fits her key in the lock. She's beyond furious—beyond shaking—at this point. She wants confirmation that everything is really ok. That this is just some stupid scheme of his.

She wants an explanation.

She wants to kill him.

The door to the loft jerks inward before she even has a chance to turn the handle. It tugs her off balance. She stumbles over the threshold and directly into Castle's chest.

Castle's bare chest.

His broad, warm, reassuring, _bare_ chest.

Her hands splay out over his skin of their own volition. She catches a breath and looks him up and down.

His hair is a little damp. He must have just showered. He smells incredible and it's a damned shame that she has to kill him.

He's standing there in her favorite silk pajama bottoms and a robe she's never seen before, and it's not fair. She's _furious _with him.

The deep red fabric of the robe hangs open. The ties dangle at his sides, rife with possibilities. That explains the bare chest.

It kind of explains the bare chest.

It's barely six p.m. and he's . . . answering the door like this?

_Rabbits are gone. _

The fury boils back up in her. The panic. It's going to take more than all that warm skin and the clean scent of him to distract her. More than the sinful contrast of the robe's thick, plush fabric with the smooth drape of silk at his hips.

She's furious, and it's _definitely _going to take more than that.

"Castle, what the _hell_?" She shoves at him.

"Kate!" He totters back a step and blinks down at her, confused. "You're not chocolate."

"_Chocolate?_" She shoves him back another step. She pushes the rest of the way into the loft. "What is _wrong_ with you?"

_Now,_ her voice shakes. It's more than just fury. It's weak-kneed relief that there's really nothing wrong. He wouldn't be lounging around in his damned jammies like some freaking super-villain if anything were really wrong.

The whole thing is just one of his stupid schemes, and she might just collapse as the tide of adrenaline recedes. She's shaking now, and it pisses her off even more.

The door slams behind her. She takes in the scene. There are candles everywhere, mostly unlit. He wasn't expecting her. Not yet. Eduardo was supposed to stall her. But even still, the light is different somehow. Low and warm.

There's just a hint of soft music playing and something smells incredible. Sweet and buttery and rich.

Her stomach rumbles as her gaze travels to the living room. There's gauzy fabric draped over most of the lamps and the gas fire is lit, even though it's a warm evening. The couches and arm chairs have been pushed to the sides of the room, and the coffee table is nowhere to be seen.

The thick pile of the rug is all but hidden under towering heaps of pillows and cushions and bolsters in bright, silky jewel tones. There's a long, low table along one side, a line of neat bowls stretching across it.

She's never seen any of it before. It's like some other world. Like he's tricked her through the looking glass.

She turns on him. "Is this about _sex_, Castle?"

He stares at her for two seconds. Two seconds only, and then he's on her.

"Yes," he says. Sure hands curve over her hips. He slides his fingers up under her shirttails and pulls her into his body. "This is definitely about sex."

She's furious. She's positively speechless with it, and he's kissing her. He's _kissing _her, hard and urgent, like he hasn't touched her in weeks. Like he didn't slip into the shower with her just this morning.

He's devouring her without even the courtesy of some kind of half-assed explanation.

"Castle!"

She brings her palms up between them. She means to push him away. She means to shove him off her and _demand _an explanation. She definitely means to do that, but it's kind of a problem.

There's the whole bare chest thing, first of all. There's the fact that every burning point of contact under her palms feels like it's not nearly enough, and her hands seem to be roaming over him whether she likes it or not.

There's the fact that every part of him that _isn't _bare chest is no help at all in reminding her of what she meant to do with her hands in the first place. Because the robe is lush and thick in her fists. It reminds her of lazy, rainy days spent entirely in bed, and the silk of his pajama pants all along the margin of his hips is driving her insane.

There's the fact that she's not entirely sure she _could _push him away right now. He's . . . intent. He's pinning her to the door and jerking the jacket from her shoulders. He has her half out of her shirt already, and his mouth is sharp and insistent everywhere it travels.

He catches skin between his teeth. It's just the right spot. It's just close enough to pain to give her a brief flare of focus.

She jerks one hip toward him and damned if _that _doesn't backfire. He's learned something about using his full weight advantage somewhere along the way. His thigh is _right_ there. It's blocking her hip, and he turns into her. The move brings his body not-quite-flush against hers. Perfectly, brilliantly not quite flush.

She cries out. His name and more, though she doesn't know what. It's loud. It rings out. From the ceiling. Off the granite of the counter and every single metal door frame in the place.

It's _loud._ It drives him on.

"Yes," he breathes. "Yes. God, Kate, I love hearing you."

He rakes his fingers down her sides, scraping bra straps along her arms as he goes. His mouth follows, rough and marking when she tries to twist away from him again.

She's gasping, trying to get a hold of herself. She needs to keep quiet. There's some reason for that, she knows. Some part of her mind repeats it over and over: _Quiet. Not here. Quiet. _

But he's having none of it. He's relentless. All hands and teeth and encouragement. Demands.

"Just us," he whispers. "Just us, Kate."

"Castle!" Her mind clears for half a second. _Just us_. That's . . . not good, right? It shouldn't be just them.

_Quiet. Not here. Quiet. _

And there's something she's supposed to be doing.

He says it over and over. A chant. _Just us. _

The words remind her. A fleeting, ragged thought that comes and goes again.

"Castle," she says again, but it's a moan this time. His hands travel down her body. They pull her hips into his.

It's a long, tortured moan and he's rumbling open-mouthed words between her breasts. "Yes. Just like that. Just like that."

And it's gone. She can't remember what she's supposed to be doing other than this. Only this.

He feels the shift in her. He hears it. He feels the softening of her spine. He moves with her this time. He peels her off the door and works her arms free of the dangling remnants of her clothes. He folds himself around her, holding her up as he coaxes one foot, then the other out of her heels.

She loses height. Glides down his body, bare skin to bare skin. She hears her own voice. Words and things that don't quite qualify. All of it dirty and sloppy and begging for more.

He gives it willingly. His mouth moves over her, hot and rapid and urgent enough that she can't keep track of it. One ruthless, burning palm rasps over her breasts and the other is busy at her waist, fumbling with button and zipper. Not quite pausing. Pressing tight between her legs and moving on again. Too soon. _Too soon. _

He talks to her. Teases words up and out of her. Declarations and ripostes and curses until the walls ring with it. Sounds and words and not quite words.

He has them moving somehow. Even with all that, he somehow he has her against the counter and he's following the fall of her dress pants down her thighs and over her calves. He steps her out of the pooled fabric and she curses up at the ceiling, wondering how the hell she got there.

His mouth works its way back up her legs. He skips from one to the other, lazy and slow and maddening. She writhes. She reaches out blindly for his hair, his ear, _anything _to make him move faster.

She bends. Falls over him to close her teeth around his shoulders. To stop her own cries.

_Quiet. Not here. _

"No." He grabs her wrists. His mouth opens high against the inside of her thigh.

"No," he says again. "Just us."

He forces her hands back. He uncurls her fists, finger by finger, and plants her palms on the counter behind her. He slides both palms up from her hips and over her ribs. He teases her spine upright until she's standing tall and her throat is long and her mouth is open wide.

"I love to hear you, Kate." He drags his lips higher and higher.

Something dark ripples through her. Something that tastes like fury. She vaguely remembers that she's supposed to be killing him. _That's _what she's supposed to be doing, but the thought is useless to her now.

Her head thrashes forward. Side to side. She looks down and the sight almost undoes her. Her fingers white and bloodless. Stark even against the pale stone of the counter. His face tipping back as he watches her. Urges her on with his tongue in more ways than one.

It almost undoes her. It makes her knees weak. It curls her fingers hard over the lip of the counter and arches her lower back. It drives her hips closer to him.

To where his mouth is busy at the crease of her thigh.

To where his fingers paint pictures over her hips and low on her belly and he looks up at her, patient darkness and something on the wrong side of playful casting shadows on his face.

To where he asks what she wants.

"Tell me, Kate." His lips brush up one thigh and down the other. "Tell me what will make you scream."

He almost has her. Just the _word_ and he almost has her, but she swallows it down. A scream. She stiffens her spine against it. She's supposed to be killing him. Even if she can't remember why, exactly, she's supposed to be killing him, not giving in like this.

He feels this, too. This shift. He feels it and answers. Something uncoils in him and everything converges on her. Lips and tongue. Teeth and fingers and intent and he's _talking. _Low and casual with a dead serious edge. He's telling her it's hopeless. That she'll give him what he wants eventually.

It's persuasive.

"I like both," he says conversationally. He drags the wide flat of his tongue between her legs. "Sooner. Later. I like both."

He pulls his mouth back. She whimpers. She jerks toward him. Tries to follow, but his fingers arc sharply over her hip. They hold her in place. He smiles as he presses a sticky kiss at a chaste distance along the outside curve of her thigh. He smiles, but it's a warning.

"I like to give you what you want." His palm slides down and his thumb hovers over her clit, not quite touching. Maddeningly not quite touching. "But you have to tell me."

And then he's touching her. The barest flick of thumb and index finger and tongue and lips and then he's gone again. He's pulling back and _gone_ and the last frayed end of her will snaps.

"Your mouth." It starts as a whisper. Something almost breathless, but he's there. His mouth is there. On her. Instant and reverent and knowing and her voice climbs. "God, Castle, your _mouth._"

Her voice climbs. It fills the room. The two words run together, over and over, and take up all the air between them.

She's screaming.

* * *

They're on the living room floor when she comes back to herself. She's a pile of heavy, warm limbs draped comfortably against an array of pillows.

The candles are lit. Scent winds around her, sweet and heavy. She has no memory of how it happened. Any of it. No memory at all of how she even got here.

She remembers sound. Sensation. Heat and a thrumming ache turning sharp inside her. All of it overwhelming and everything in him coaxing her to let go. Willing her. Making her.

She remembers sound. Just that.

And here they are now.

He's lost the robe. Her hands tell her that when she has the strength to lift them. When she finds warm skin beneath her fingertips.

His head is somewhere around her middle. He's diligent. Kissing and murmuring. Narrating and still teasing shivers and small noises from her. She drags a foot up his calf and feels the whisper of silk.

_Wrong,_ she thinks in a disjointed sort of way. He was half naked when she got here and somehow he _still_ has his pants on, and that's just _wrong._

She shifts her hips. Her skin drags over something soft. Something heavy with the borrowed heat of his body. The robe. The one he lost somewhere along the way. The one she's never seen before.

He must have spread it out and arranged her on it and she has the feeling that should annoy her. She has a vague sense that all of this will be really infuriating as soon as she remembers why.

Her fingers make their way down his spine in a heavy, unkind drag of fingernails. She's pretty sure she's pissed at him. In the lucid moments between waves—in the narrow spaces between his words—she's pretty sure of that, and she might as well start saying so with whatever parts of her work.

That doesn't include her voice at the moment. Her throat is raw and her tongue is tired and clumsy feeling. She remembers the world filling with sound and her face goes hot.

_Quiet._ _Not here. Quiet. _

She tries to move away. She tries to lift her hips or turn her shoulders. She tries to remember, but even the flickering candlelight feels heavy and everything smells good. Everything _feels _good.

She stirs and his hands press her back into the pillows like giving in is the last thing on his mind. And, anyway, she really is sinfully comfortable.

She stills. He smiles into the arc of her ribs and resumes whatever it is he's doing. Going over her body millimeter by millimeter like she's undiscovered country. Narrating. Making her forget.

Her hands travel down his back again as he climbs up and up. Her fingers reach the silk line of his pajama bottoms. His super-villain jammies. Her fist bunches at the fabric and it all comes back to her. It comes back to her in a sudden slam of memory and she surges up.

"Castle!"

She twists. She pushes. Hits out at him clumsily and wrenches her knee up to waist level. She has him on his back in an instant. She straddles his hips and and shoves his shoulders to the floor as he grabs for her.

"Whoa, Kate!" He holds his hands up in surrender. "Easy."

Her head snaps toward the hutch, but it's covered. Draped in something heavier than the translucent, floating things over the lamps.

"The rabbits are gone," she hisses.

He blinks up at her, disoriented. Awed and hazy eyed. He tries to sit up. He's coming after her again and . . . _No. _Just. _No. _

"Castle." She tangles her fingers in his hair, none too gently. "Rabbits."

"Oh, yeah."

He smiles.

He _chuckles._

She almost kills him right then.

"Kidnapped."


	3. Chapter 3

Title: L'amour de deux lapins: Taken

WC: ~3300, Chapter 3, ~8000 total

Rating: M

Summary: "_Rabbits are gone. Come home! _Who texts something like that? Who texts _that_ and nothing else and then doesn't _answer the f***ing phone?"_

A/N: Man. Brain was a pain on this. We both knew what happened in this chapter and yet. AND YET . . .

This is slightly less M than chapter 2, but still leaning in that direction. And it closes out this episode. I'm planning on a companion piece that runs concurrent with this one, but I cannot predict what kind of tangent Brain might run off on in the meantime.

Thank you, as always, for reading and for being so very lovely about the bunnehs.

And another thank you to Lindosaur for permission to use the cover art for the original "L'amour series"!

* * *

She has to get up.

_They _have to get up.

The rabbits are gone. _Kidnapped. _

It's ridiculous. The very thought is ridiculous, but he's sticking to the story, such as it is.

It's nonsense. That's what it is. Even now.

She's just coming back to herself after who knows how long, and she has nothing more than a convoluted, half-assed explanation. The sad result of a frantic, broken interrogation. Something hardly worthy of the name that she carried out in fits and starts. Gaps he filled in when he took her somewhere out beyond words. Tidbits he scattered before her, leading her on while he waited for her breath to come back just to take it from her again. Just to make her scream.

It's a patchwork story. Ryan and Esposito and revenge for something she's not clear on. An old school ransom note and cut-out magazine letters. O. Henry waiting to happen, whatever that means.

Nonsense, but he's sticking to it. It might even be true. Mostly true. Sort of.

_Kidnapped. _

She really should do something about it. She's absolutely going to do something about it . . . _now. _

He fights her, though. At the first sign of movement, he fights her.

She's sprawled over his body. The heavy warm drape of his robe covers the better part of her back and she can't find words. She exists in waves. Shivers and heat rolling over her. His hands anchor her, even while they roam here and there, teasing up and smoothing down.

She doesn't remember how or when this happened either. This part. Any of the parts.

She remembers laughter. Screaming. Candles and music. Ice cream toppings the second time around. Or the third? Salt and sweetness. His mouth and hers and the sudden, endless expanse of the living room floor.

Sound and sensation.

_Him. _

This version of him she's not used to.

He's intent. Insistent and demanding. Relentless, even now.

Even now, she pushes and he pushes back, and she all she can think is _again. _

He wants her again and she wants him.

She wants to collapse over him. She wants to give in to his kisses. The way he's stroking down her spine. Words she doesn't really hear, even though they permeate her skin. Coaxing and thanking her. Urging her on and up again.

She wants to give in to everything. The low music and the taste of him. The soft light and the silk of dozens of pillows around her. The empty loft and just the two of them.

She resists, though.

She remembers others things. The smirk on his face and fury. Grappling with him and losing somehow. Some shift between them that landed her underneath him with her hands somewhere far away. Knotted together and useless with his mouth on hers while he pushed inside her. Finally. Over and over.

She remembers fighting him. Because he chuckled. And she kind of lost it. And apparently he found that _hilarious. _

And hot.

And he made the mistake of saying that out loud. Or maybe it wasn't a mistake at all. Not at the moment, because she made _him _scream, then. A long, loud ribbon of curses.

Nothing like his usual, maddening eloquence, and she's proud of that. No through narrative that time. None of his speciality. Things that make no sense at all, even when they linger pleasantly. Silvery and beautiful and dying away before she can see through them.

Nothing like that, and that was him getting his way, however proud she might have been.

It was no mistake. It is now. He won't get away with it a second time. O. Henry and that deep laugh that runs right through her. He won't get away with that.

She has questions. Lots and lots of questions.

She doesn't believe for a _second _that he's innocent in all this. That he has _no idea_ why the boys would be seized with a sudden urge to kidnap the rabbits.

Revenge. He admitted that much. So he must have done something. Or he didn't do anything and it's about her. It's about her and he's covering. She'll sort that out later.

For now, she'll start with getting up. She has to get up.

_They_ have to get up.

But she's warm and exhausted, and somehow he still has the energy to fight her when she tries to lift her head from his shoulder.

"We don't have to get up." He starts to pull her back toward him. He stops and she's falling into him again.

"Castle." She gasps as his mouth lands just south of her shoulder.

He holds her to him, fingers definite and uncompromising at her hips. Heat spreads out from every where he touches her. His teeth worry at her skin. His tongue follows a tight, winding path up over rises and down into hollows, and all the fight goes out of her. She wants to give in.

Again.

_Again _again, technically.

"Caramel," he says with an innocent look as his mouth sweeps over her skin. "Missed a spot."

"You made caramel," she says incredulously. "You're an idiot." She dips her head toward his. Her tongue darts over his lip, stealing the taste. "And a jerk."

"Yes. I can see that." He mumbles agreeably. "I can see how making caramel—from scratch, mind you—makes me a jerk."

"I'm serious." She is. All of a sudden she is.

_Rabbits are gone. _

She remembers the bottom dropping out of the world when her phone lit up and there it was. Just that and silence.

She's serious then.

She pushes away and rolls off him.

"Would I be an idiot and a jerk if there had been chocolate?" He gives chase. He's not done with her. With this. "Because there was supposed to be chocolate."

She snatches up one of the pillows and blocks him with it. A fat bolster in emerald green. "Yes, you're still a jerk."

The words are hard. Sharp in her mouth. He scared her. He _scared _her, and she's pissed.

But even now she's reaching out for him. One hand clutches the pillow tight and the other reaches out. She brushes her thumb along his chin.

"There was whipped cream," he argues. "Fresh." He catches her hand and licks the evidence away. "And real maraschino cherries. Not the gross fake ones."

He looks up at her. He peeks around the bolster, wide-eyed and anything but innocent as he takes the tip of her thumb into his mouth.

"There was supposed to be chocolate?" Her eyes flutter closed as she says it. As she imagines it on her tongue. On his skin.

"Mmmmhmmm." He sucks hard, then releases her thumb with a pop. "Chocolate, too. But you were early."

_Early. _She wonders how long it's been. How much missing time between then and now.

"Early." she repeats.

"Early. You left right away. You came home right away." She feels his mouth working its way down to her breast in a wide grin. "Eduardo must have held on to it."

"Early." Something clicks and she's serious again. Her eyes fly open. "_Eduardo!"_

She bats him in the nose with the pillow.

"Ow!"

"You wouldn't answer the phone." She draws the pillow back again. "And you stalled me. You tried to stall me with Eduardo and your stupid . . ." It clicks. The stupid story he fed Eduardo. "Your _stupid_ Dirk Gently scheme."

It happens fast. He yanks the pillow from her hands. He hurls it away, hard enough to upend more than one of the bowls scattered nearby. The scents of cherry and caramel twine around one another.

She starts to say something. About what a complete _jackass _he is for scaring her. About the mess he's making. The words are there, and then they're not. She's on her back and they're gone. All her words are gone again.

"You got it." His body frames hers. He looms over her and she wonders who this is. This version of him. Intent on this. On her. He presses her back into the sea of pillows. "Dirk Gently. You got the reference. You're . . . "

He breaks off. He pulls back to look at her and she's nothing but a rush of heat under a hungry gaze. "You're fucking amazing."

Her mouth falls open. Sound climbs up from somewhere down low inside. She wants to give this back to him. Words or even that look. The one that makes her believe that no one—no one—has ever really seen her until that moment.

She's furious with him. Still furious as the memory of fear comes and goes, Even so, she wants him to know what he does to her. For her and with her.

She wants to tell him, but her mind is a white hot blank. She buries her mouth at his throat and lets the sound travel over him. Through his body and back into hers.

His lips roam over her shoulders and up her neck and he's pouring words in her ear. Worship and curses and a low, rumbling laugh, wicked and delighted and all she can think is _Again_

_Again. _

_Again_.

* * *

_He's_ exhausted now. His head is heavy against her ribs and his hands are clumsy. Stuttering and intermittent all along the inside of her thigh.

He's exhausted. Finally.

She'd like to be smug about it. She'd like to rake her fingers over him. To tease and coax and work at his body. Laugh when all he can come up with is her name. A plea and a curse. Total surrender and not a thing he can do about it.

She'd like to be smug, but she's exhausted, too. Body and soul, she's exhausted, and she wants to enjoy this part. The quiet. Candles burning down and guttering out. The sweet, lingering scent and the play of light on unfamiliar silk.

She wants to keep watch while he dozes. She wants to drift off herself. The sure press of his palm at her shoulder and his thigh draped over hers.

She wants the story to end here. The curtain to come down on this. Falling together into rest.

But there's a hollow place. An aching, unsure point inside her and the words creep out. He's half asleep. She's keeping watch. And still, the words creep out.

"You scared me."

"Scared you . . . Kate . . ." He's startled. Stricken and blinking as he swipes at bleary eyes. As he climbs to duck his head against her shoulder, sincere and contrite.

"Kate . . . I." He tries to wrap his arms around her. Clumsy now, and out of words. "God. I'm sorry. I didn't . . . I should have said."

"But you didn't." She fights him. She pushes away and means it. "You didn't say. And you wouldn't answer the phone."

He goes after her her. He reaches for her and pulls up short. Something in her face makes him settle for arm's length.

"I just . . . I wanted to to do something for you." His voice is low. "Something . . . spontaneous."

His eyes drop. They skitter away. His shoulders rise and fall. Stubborn, then resigned.

She waits him out.

"Batman isn't really compatible with spontaneous," he says at last. It's pleading. Defensive, but guilty, too.

"Batman isn't," she says flatly.

That's it. The point of pain that's kept to the shadows until now.

She looks around at the chaos he's created. _They've _created. A hundred chewable hiding places and the building blocks for a fortress. Delectable food at Ferrous level and breakable things everywhere.

She wonders absently how bad maraschino cherries are for rabbits. Real ones.

She looks around.

It's the least rabbit-proof environment imaginable. And it's not spontaneous.

Maybe the execution. Maybe whatever the hell is going on with Ryan and Esposito and revenge. A window of opportunity. That's possible.

But he planned _this._ Even he couldn't have pulled all of it together from nothing in an hour or two.

"Are you . . . bored?" she asks suddenly.

They stare at each other. She's as surprised to say it as he is to hear it.

"Bored?" He blinks.

"With me."

He blinks again. She can practically hear it.

"Are you nuts?" He grabs for her now. He's done with arm's length. He bats her hands away and runs his fingers over her scalp.

"What are you doing?" She squirms. She hits out at him, but he's back to insistent.

"Looking for head injuries." His hands come together behind her head. His thumbs sweep under her jaw, forcing her head up. Forcing her to look at him. "Bored with you? What kind of question is that?"

"You scared the _hell_ out of me." Her voice shakes. She lets it. She lets the last tendrils of fear loose. She lets him see as they unfurl.

"Kate . . ." He stops. His face falls. "I shouldn't have . . . I'm sorry. I should've told you they were fine."

"But you didn't." She says again. "You didn't think I'd come."

"That's not . . ." His eyes flick up to hers. "Ok, ok, maybe I . . . I was maybe afraid you might not see . . ."

"Might not see _what?" _

He doesn't answer right away. He draws back. His fingers dance a breath away from her skin like they're seeking one last touch he doesn't think he deserves.

He's upset.

She upset him.

He upset _her _first.

That's a stubborn push that sets her chin at him, but it's cold comfort. He's upset, and she wishes she'd let the curtain come down five minutes ago. She wishes the two of them were quiet. Falling together into rest.

He grabs a pillow of his own. Something purple and tasseled within an inch of its life. He rolls most of the way on to his stomach beside her. He hugs it to himself. A borderland between them.

"You work really hard," he says, just when she's sure he'll never say anything again.

He looks over at her—across the purple, tasseled landscape—and his face is something old. She remembers this. It's been years now, but she remembers his eyes opening, wide and annoyed at her long hours. At the tedious reality of digging through records. Phone calls and hours on hold.

She remembers that face. She remembers his tapping foot and petulant dismay. They way he couldn't believe her day wasn't all kicking down doors and trying out new catch phrases.

But there's something else old, too. Stubbornness. Intent to follow. To dig in and work just as hard. She remembers that. Early on, if not quite from the first. Surprise at it. Certainty that it couldn't last. Grudging respect when it did.

He lifts a hand. He hooks a finger around a stray lock of her hair and tugs. He tries out a smile, but it's not much. "You worry. And now . . . with them . . . " He gestures toward the looming bulk of the covered hutch. "It's work. Keeping them out of trouble is work. You have something to worry about all the time."

It stings. She works at this. At turning off everything else. At letting herself get caught up in this. Home. Him. Them. The easy, joyful approach to life that comes naturally to him. He doesn't see that. That she works at it, even if she's failing. He doesn't even know, and it _stings_.

She tries to turn it off now. The hurt and the part of her at makes everything complicated. He wanted to do something for her . . .

"Hey!" He tugs at her hair again, harder. He sounds a little panicked now. He brushes her cheek with his fingers. "Don't do that."

"What?" she snaps at him. It's watery and terrible.

"That _thing!"_ He makes a frustrated noise. He gives up on the borderlands. He peppers her face with kisses. "Don't go away. _In._ I'm the jerk here. I did everything all wrong."

"_You _worry." She turns her face away from his and hates the accusation in her voice. She hates the words. This isn't what she wants to tell him. "You worry, too. How can you ask me not to?"

"I'm not." He takes a breath. She feels it. His ribs expanding with air and words he's trying not to say. "I did this all wrong. I'm still doing this wrong."

"Not all wrong." She flops on her stomach alongside him. She wrestles a pillow underneath herself and closes her eyes. She wants this to be easier. "Homemade caramel."

"No chocolate, though," he says miserably.

He's only mostly joking, but they laugh. She cracks one eye open. He's watching her. Of course he's watching her.

"What?"

"I love that you worry," he says. "I love finding you asleep in the armchair with the two of them. I love the way you make the Batman theme into a lullaby."

"I do _not!" _

"I even love your denial." He doesn't bother to flinch when she reaches out to flick his ear. He plucks her fingers from the air. He presses them to his lips, suddenly serious. "I love seeing . . . ." He takes another breath. Deep and a little shaky. "I love seeing you like that. Seeing what it would be like. What you'd be like."

Her heart rattles around somewhere underneath her ribs. She has no idea how they got here. She'd like to run. If she could move any two limbs in conjunction she might. She might run.

But he smiles. His face is eager and open. He catches the low light of the candles and smiles and something settles into place.

Her heart pounds and a part of her that's old wants to run. A part of her from years ago that's far away and here at the same time.

But most of her settles and stays. The part of her that matters comes to rest.

He smiles again. Wider. Warmer, even though that doesn't seem possible.

He smiles like he sees it. LIke he knows even as his hand falls to rest over the thump underneath her ribs.

He smiles like he knows this conversation they keep circling around is coming soon and he wants it. Like it's going to be ok. Whenever it comes. However it goes.

He slides his fingers into her hair and brings his mouth close to her ear.

"I love seeing that side of you." It's fierce and sure and intent.

He slides close to her. Eases her on to her side. He pulls her body flush against his and lets one hand skip lightly down her hip. Up and over and all along her spine.

"I love that you worry." He kisses her. A light, fleeting thing, and the sweep of his tongue is an afterthought. A smile as he seeks some hint of sweetness at the corner of her mouth. As he leaves a taste behind. "But I love making you forget, too. I love making you forget everything else for a little while."

He slips his other arm under her body. Her arms wind around his neck and her mouth opens against him.

"Forget," she says softly. She tastes him. Sugar and his skin and she wants to she _wants_ to forget. Drops her head forward and pushes herself half-heartedly up on to her forearms. "No," she groans. "Rabbits. Enough forgetting."

"No. Not enough," he says petulantly. He cranes up toward her, following.

"Castle it's been . . ." She looks around. She has no idea. No idea at all. "It's been a long time. It's Batman and her army of one. Ryan and Esposito don't stand a chance. Someone's bleeding by now."

His eyes flick open. There's something hard there. Something fierce and unmoving. Intent. Something else in her settles into place. Something that knows that fierceness. Something that trusts it.

"They took our rabbits." He pulls her back down to him. He kisses her hard. "Let them bleed."

* * *

A/N: Thanks again for reading my dears. I'm going to mark this complete, although it's possible there might be a short epilogue to it as a bridge to the companion piece.

A/N2: Just amending this A/N to indicate that I've scrapped the idea of an epilogue or companion piece, so it's just "complete."


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